Ah, another morning on Maenam Beach. The tide’s doing its lazy ballet, and I’ve got Bukowski’s “Post Office” dog-eared beside me. These mornings, they’re not just mornings – they’re quiet conversations between the sea and my soul.
Last night, I was at Rung’s place again. That woman – Achara – she doesn’t cook, she conjures memories. Her grilled snapper? It’s not just seafood. It’s a narrative written in salt and chili, each bite telling stories older than my wandering years.
chuckles softly
Sixty-four years, and I’m still learning. Thailand isn’t just a place; it’s a living, breathing poem. The street vendors, the fishermen, the kids playing soccer at sunset – they’re all verses in this incredible composition.
takes another sip
Bukowski would’ve loved this. Raw. Unfiltered. Real.
The ocean whispers today. Soft. Inviting. And me? I’m listening. Always listening.
winks and returns to his book
Want another beer?
